A sad bird doesn't sing
by Magdelope
Summary: "I go looking for her. 'Tis true that I should have stayed away but I needed to see her, to know her again. My bard. My dancing partner. My lying, theiving, decieving little song bird." Morrigan goes, in bird form, to find Leliana at Skyhold keep. Morrigan/Leliana. One-shot.


**Apparently I hadn't posted this yet. :O bird!Morrigan's p.o.v**

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><p>I go looking for her. 'Tis true that I should have stayed away but I needed to see her, to know her again. My bard. My dancing partner. My lying, theiving, decieving little song bird. I find her in Skyhold keep. A very fitting name for a song bird, even one that has stopped singing. I find her in the rockery, among the crows and the ravens, the owls and the jackdaws. There she sits, listening to their chatter and their heartbroken cries. Their cries in the night embodying her bruised heart and frightened soul. I should have known that I would find her in the company of the other forgotten birds. Birds don't need words to talk, 'tis unfortunate humans do.<p>

When she opens her mouth I expect her to squak, but to my surprise her voice is human. She looks surprised to see me but she lifts her hand to pet my plumage. I want to tell her that 'tis me, but when I open my beak a sad sound comes out. I'm a bird. I belong in the rockery, with my nightinggale and the rest of us lost souls.

She looks into my eyes and at first 'tis upsetting that she doesn't recognize me. How she places her burning blue eyes in my icy yellow ones yet doesn't see me. But there is an opportunity in the anonymity. There is no need to worry, or overthink simple things. As a bird I can act on my instincts.

I try to jump into her lap, but I am too big so I voice my complain, loudly, while flapping my large wings, forgetting that I am larger than the average nightingale. _Don't, pretty bird. You're going to hurt me, pretty bird. _I wind up sitting on the floor next to her and I place my black head on her shoulder, cooing and breathing deeply. I feel her heart thumping under my tongue and my senses are flooded with the scent of a scared little bird. I want to catch her. Eat her. Swallow her whole. Anything so that I can keep her safe. My nightingale.

I want to bury my nose and face in the crook of her neck, maybe nip at the skin a little bit. 'Tis already too late when I notice the blood seeping through thin cuts on her neck. _Pretty bird. _'Tis really quite disconcerning how she keeps calling me that. I am not pretty and 'tis not pretty how I keep hurting her with my beak and claws.

I pull back, trying to ignore how the sun sets in her eyes as I turn away. I glare at the other birds in the rockery. My rivals in the fight for the affection of our nightingale. I eye them for size, calculating how long it would take me to eat them all. There is only room for one feathery predator in my nightingale's life and that is me. I need to leave now.

_Please don't go. _

Her voice is soft. Almost silent. The sad song of a lonely bird. I freeze on the windowsill, so close to freedom.

_Please, Morrigan. Please stay for a little while. _

It would be so easy to just leave. To flee. How can she know what I am? Who I am? But still I cannot leave her to chirp by herself in the dying night. Maybe her song has hypnotized me, turning her into the predator with me as her prey. I turn around, even as the evening wind flies through the window, ruffling my feathers and begging me to fly far away.

_I don't want to be alone anymore._

Stupid human. Nightingales don't advertise their loneliness so openly. They sing about it. Hint at it. They don't talk about it. They don't beg for company. They don't beg for love. Pathetic humans do. While I keep glaring at her with the gaze of a hawk, tears starts flowing down her cheeks. She's presenting her weakness to me, giving me this gift of vulnerability.

She walks slowly towards me, holding her hand out towards my head. 'Tis hard to fight the instinct to sink my beak into her pale fingers, but I cannot be a predator with her. When she touches my head, my heart explodes, my mind buzzes and my feathers melt into a puddle on the floor. My eyes grow wider, my wings shorten and my beak softens into a human mouth. A terrified squak turns into a human shriek as my bones rearrange and my spine lenghtens.

When I wake up from the pain, I have drifted off the windowsill and I'm sitting below it with the crying bird in my arms. I'm holding her and she's holding me and our joint singing is a sad sound in the night. I want to tell her then. Tell her how I actually feel and why 'tis so hard for me to say. But words escape me. I cannot tell her anything. And maybe I don't need to.

There is a reason that birds don't need words to talk or sing. They don't need words to communicate their longing, their love or their happiness. 'Tis implied in the sad sounds they produce during dusk and dawn. But a truly sad bird doesn't sing, especially not sad nightingales.


End file.
